


Beautiful

by deathofaraven



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: A Lot Of People Are Mentioned, F/M, a bit melancholic too, but the fic is entirely introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: No one's ever called her beautiful before.





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> This is really old, but I realised I never moved it over here from Tumblr, so.... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It technically should be in with SA, but it really applies to my canon for 99% of all my Victoria/Reaver fics (minus the really big AUs) so I'm not putting it there. Oh whale. -confetti-

No one’s ever called her beautiful before.

“Lovely”, that was the word her family used. Father and mother smoothing her hair out of her face and hugging her close with a warmth she barely remembers now. Logan clutching her hand before a formal event, trying to smile and focus on her as his expression kept threatening to crumple into barely concealed panic. Walter commenting on her form as she sparred and Jasper’s eyes crinkling at the edges as she tried on a new gown. _Lovely_. Like a flower or a nice day; delightful, but nothing special to look at.

“Oh, _dear_ , she looks so much like her _mother_ , doesn’t she?” She hears the nobles in the gardens whisper it constantly. At first, she thought it was a compliment, even if she didn’t get along with her mother. Mother is (and then _was_ ) stately and elegant. Mother’s portrait is the prettiest one in the entire castle. It’s years before she realises the true meaning: Mother was not born into her station. They are calling her common and plain and maybe, she thinks, she shouldn’t have expected anything more.

“Handsome” is what Elliot calls her as they sprawl out amidst the grass and flowers of the gardens. He says it with an affectionate smile and warmth in his eyes, ignoring that they’re both covered in leaves and flowers and the occasional chicken feather. As though he’s never known anything like her. She throws another handful of grass at him in response, giggling even though she doesn’t find the situation remarkably funny. But the word follows her for the rest of the day, circling in her thoughts like a shark. Doubt follows it.

The nobility no longer make an attempt to falsely flatter her, but she can hear their whispers irregardless: “Oh, what _terrible_ fortune! _Look at her!_ Look at her _face_ ; I would _die_ if that had happened to me!” At first she wishes she _had_ died—that the balverine that had attacked her had successfully cleaved her skull open, leaving only a corpse behind. And then she decides it doesn’t matter. She looks to a future she doesn’t then realise will never come, for a soldier has no need to be attractive when their worth lies in protecting their country.

“ _You’re beautiful_ ,” he whispers, pressing the words to her flesh with every kiss and touch. He says it reverently, like a _prayer_ , like an acolyte to their _divine_. And she wants to melt into him every time. She doesn’t believe him. He might mean the words, he might even _believe_ them himself, but she knows they _can’t_ be true. No one else has _ever_ called her beautiful before.


End file.
